On the uses of Repetition
Hi, friends.
Hope you are beginning to find some rhythm to your summer days and hope it includes some writing time and some vacation time. You’ve earned it. I’m set to be on vacation with my extended family in two weeks when the next installment of the newsletter is set to go. I’m not entirely sure what that newsletter might entail. It may just be a report that I have not yet been eaten by bears. Fingers crossed for that. If not, one of you will need to break into my house and finish my novel for me.
Story.
This week’s story is Snowfall by Deesha Philyaw. It comes from her collection The Secret Lives of Church Ladies which has been getting rave reviews and was this year’s winner of the Story Prize.
Craft tidbits.
You know I’m a sucker for a story that’s about weather. And here we have winter causing conflict for our narrator. The beauty of this story, I think, is twofold. One is the way Philyaw parcels out information, the way the conflict reveals itself bit by bit. Spoiler: it’s not really about the snow. Though it opens with Rhonda and Leelee appearing to be unified against it. We know fairly soon that some conflict has wedged between them, though we don’t know exactly what it is. Only that they spent another night having a
bedtime conversation that started innocently enough. We are living in the space of me staring at the ceiling for hours, then oversleeping, again, of Rhonda having to do the bulk of the snow and ice clearing, again.
Too, we get the story about how protective mama is before we learn that her relationship with Leelee has become strained, that mama does not approve of the life she is making with Rhonda. Before that revelation, we learn that mama’s affair (with a married church deacon!) ought to be a reason for her to extend grace to her daughter. But if we know anything about people, it’s how complicated they are, how stubborn in their grudges. We see this irony of this, the cycle of secret keeping, even if the characters don’t.
The other beautiful thing Philyaw is doing exists on the sentence level. For me, this is where writing exists. I love a good, long, rhythmic sentence. In fact, I’m reading a novel right now (or trying to) where the writing is clunky on the sentence level. The word choice is wrong. It’s overly written and pulls me out of the story. But we need these reminders every once in awhile about what doesn’t work so that we know what does. And Philyaw’s sentences are doing a lot of work, especially her use of repetition to reinforce a point. The first instance of this is in the second paragraph with the repetition of No.
We, who apparently are built for everything, are simply not built for this. No gloves exist that keep our hands from freezing as we move snow and ice from one spot to another and from the car windshield. No boots exist that can keep the cold from numbing our toes. No amount of layers and waterproof pants keep the chill at bay. We feel it through our chests. And no, the physical activity does not warm us up. It makes us resentful.
It’s interesting that this paragraph is also written from the plural “we.” It suggests a unification that’s not quite true. It is Rhonda who is shoveling the snow while Leelee watches her from the window. Though we don’t learn this right away. (Another instance where Leelee delays parceling out the information of what she wants to be true and what actually is.)
The stylized use of repetition really becomes noticeable in the paragraphs about what they miss most about home. There are fifteen sentences that begin with the phrase “we miss.” The repetition becomes an incantation about the way of life that feels so far away. A plea to her mother, perhaps. Stylewise, these are the most lush detailed sentences in the story:
But what we really miss are the laughter and embrace of our mothers and grandmothers and aunties, kin and not kin. We miss the big oak tables in their dining rooms where, as kids in the ‘70s and ‘80s, we ate bowl after bowl of their banana pudding as they talked to each other about how much weight you’d gained, like you weren’t even there. We miss helping them snap green beans and shell peas sitting at their kitchen tables watching “The Young and the Restless” on the TV perched on the pass-through. We miss how they loved Victor Newman, hated Jill Foster, and envied Miss Chancellor and how she dripped diamonds and chandeliers.
They go on and on. And because they are so rich, the repetition doesn’t grow tiresome. It builds and builds until the revelation that none of this is available to either of them anymore except as memory, a way to connect to one another. And that connection isn’t working like used to.
Though Lee is projecting here. It isn’t until the phone call after Leelee’s fall that we learn Rhonda is estranged from her family. The nostalgia for home doesn’t have the same pull for her as it does for Leelee. In fact, there is some jealousy that Leelee can still call her mother. Even if these calls don’t fulfill her in the way that she wishes they would, they are available to her.
Elsewhere, the sentences are efficient. Especially the ones detailing her life with Rhonda. There are very few metaphors. The one that shines the most is thematically tied to the weather.
But like a beautiful quilt in summertime, my mother’s love was the suffocating kind, the kind you chafe against and don’t miss until the seasons change and it’s gone.
Another good lesson here: Let your metaphors be of a kind.
Phrases aren’t the only use of repetition. Philyaw also repeats the plot point of driving on slippery roads and the worry that comes with it. The first time is a flashback of Leelee worrying her mother when she was younger. The second time, the drive is uneventful - Leelee and Rhonda on their way to work. It’s once the car is parked that the danger reveals itself. Leelee slips and falls on the ice in the parkinglot. A confirmation that worry is warranted. On the return home, there is a lot of silence. And then Rhonda takes the car back out for a secret mission and Leelee is left to worry about her safety just as her mother had been.
There had been so much tension quietly seething in the silence, I was not prepared for the ending. I was waiting for the worry to find a home. Instead, there is a moment of happiness. Of surprise joy. Even if it might be temporary.
Outside, snow blankets our deck. It will fall all night, and tomorrow, we’ll again do its bidding.
Sparks.
Write a story about someone who is homesick - either for a place or a person. What do they most miss? What is absent in their life that they think this place or person could fill?
Or. Write about a character who worries constantly. Perhaps their worry has merit. Perhaps it doesn’t. How does the worry infect their relationships and cause them more trouble than letting go?
Revision prompt: Maybe you have a story or a scene that you could open up using repetition - either repetition on the sentence level or a plot point that recurs. One way to brainstorm this might be the patterns and habits of your characters in their daily lives.
Other tidbits.
Jami Attenberg’s #1000wordsofsummer begins May 31st. I’ve participated in it twice. It’s a great way to get a lot of words down and feel like you are not alone in this big endeavor. It runs for two weeks. But, if you, like me, aren’t going to be available for the designated dates, worry not. The pep talks are archived and you can catch your words on your own schedule.
In the event that you are querying or thinking about books yours might sit adjacent to on the shelf, Star Wuerdemann has you covered re: finding comps.
There are lots of submissions closing at the end of May. I posted a list to Instagram last week. Here are a few more to add to your list: Willow Springs; Nashville Review; LitMag; The Common for work about place. (Do we need a pep talk about submissions? No one is going to knock on your door asking for your beautiful words, I’m afraid. So we must get them polished up and ready to fly. I’ll see you in the queue.)
I floated the idea of doing a novel read next month. I’m still giving this some thought re: logistics. With vacation coming up, it makes sense for me to push it to later in the summer which will also give you time to get your hands on a book, read ahead, etc.
Okay scribblers. That’s it for now. Happy writing until next time ~
Marsha